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I drank Dylan Thomas under the table.
It wasn’t hard. The great man was all talk.
The alco­holic genius of the fable
after half a beer could hardly walk,
and one mar­tini later bel­lowed, “Don’t
go gen­tle into that good night!” I said,
“Dylan, you can rest assured I won’t.”
He shrugged, “That’s just a line stuck in my head,
then lay down on the floor recit­ing Joyce
Kilmer, sac­cha­rine phrases slurred by drool.
I must admit he had a lovely voice,
but soon passed out, a sput­ter­ing damn fool.
When he awoke, he cried, “I’ve been to hell,
where I com­posed one splen­did vil­lanelle!”

(orig­i­nally pub­lished in Miller’s Pond)